Literacy = Terrorism

Well, it was only a matter of time. Through ignorance and not giving two shits, we've managed to end up on the postal terrorist watch list. Seriously.

We sent a bunch of raffle tickets to an older board member in her 70s to work on, a little fundraiser of ours. We sent a lot of tickets. We put it in a brown envelope, I guess it was about 6X9, and put postage on it. Not enough, it turns out, but that was the least of our troubles. We stuck it in the mail with everything else. We-ell, we got a giant summons to come to the post office the very next day. ASAP. We weren't pleased anyway, as we've been feuding with the P.O. over their inability to deliver mail that's clearly marked. We can't help it that this state has some seriously weird addresses. So perhaps we came in with a bit of an attitude. Let's assume we did.

Apparently, we violated the 13 oz. rule. Have no idea what it is? Neither did we. But apparently it went into effect at the end of last month. If we used metered mail, we wouldn't have had the problem; but to get something that meters your mail costs quite a bit a month, at least for our little organization. So we use stamps. Apparently you can't put stamps on something that's over 13 ounces anymore. You can buy something off of the internet to slap on it, or you can present it to a postal person. Director/Buddy, who is depressingly pro-America sometimes, went ballistic on the poor postal lady over the new rule. It's been a rough week at the office.

But now, we're officially labeled. And if there is one thing we hate as workers with people with disabilities, it's a goddamn label. We're officially 13 oz. terrorists. We now have to have any potentially 13 oz. plus items personally handed over. Not to be inspected, mind you, but just to be handed over. After the giant fit ended, they offered to send the postal worker straight to the office, instead of making us drive in, contingent on us reporting whether we have any weighty packages or not. In a fit of "We'll fix them!!", Director/Buddy plans on calling every day to report that she thinks she might have a package, but she isn't sure yet, can't they send the girl on down anyway? Heh, heh, heh...

But seriously. What a dumb rule. What difference does it make if it's hand delivered, if you have no clue what's inside of it??

We're on the watch list for 90 days. That's the maximum period, sort of like a restraining order, in case you're wondering how much attitude was actually displayed.

-- Virgil

Hie Mec Beswickened

In my own discombobulated translation of Old English, I think that means They Tricked Me.

I put myself in a course on Old English this semester. Why? Why, why, why, why, why? Supposedly we'll be able to read it by the end of the semester. But there are 19 different ways to write the word "the", based on gender, number, and insanity. I took it, instead of something more reasonable, because I have to have something old and something British. I'm afraid of what I'll be forced to take in my last semester if I don't take it now. But I have a midterm and a stinking final in this class, and I wasn't bargaining on that. And it's really bad form to drop/add a graduate class. Worse, the class is full of linguistics-nerds from other disciplines, making it about the most boring class on earth.

I try to study this at home, trying to balance my study for the Italian translation test coming up soon with my need to speed learn this OE stuff. I read it out loud, and the cat has a meowing fit. Then she attacks my book. I'm not kidding. It's as though I'm reading an incantation made specifically to piss off cats.

Pas sycanes. This sucks.

-- Virgil, Beswickened

They're Ba-ack....

So, having been through the first part of the new school week, I have some observations to make.

I never like most of my students starting out, mainly because I miss (most) of my old ones, and I want them back. But this crowd of miscreants...well, I don't think I like any of them yet, and that's a first. Maybe it was just the excitement of being in a smaller class where you can actually talk to each other; maybe it was the excitement of coming away from the night before, where the university in its infinite wisdom has a free concert and beer. If you have to teach on the Tuesday after this party, you can guarantee you'll lose more than a few to hangovers the first day. And while I probably shouldn't give away where I teach, I will say that free concerts and beer on the first day of school, provided by the administration, is probably one of the reasons why my school made #1 this year in both students who don't study and party-hardying. Sigh.

Several of them are self-proclaimed first time fails, or what we term around the water cooler: "repeat offenders." I had so much background buzz of side chatter I had to call people out multiple times--that rarely happens until later. I had one kid with a chip on his shoulder the size of Manhattan go apeshit during our opening ice breakers. I changed my explanation of my "disturbance clause" to fit the language I thought would make the most sense to them. Normally, I talk about how "aggressive behavior will be swiftly dealt with." This time I said, "If you have 'roid rage or just plain step up in my face, I'll do my level best to get you kicked out of this class and the university. Don't test." I have two that I can actually see giving it a try.

I've got a game plan in case they get too amped up, though, and while I've never personally had to pull it out, I've been assured by several who have used it that it works flawlessly. First, there is the initial 30 second soapbox about the disrespect of talking while others are talking. If it happens again, you get really quiet. Basically you just stop what you're doing until enough people figure out that something serious is up. Then you tell them to take out a piece of paper and write--nonstop--for the rest of the class period on the subject you provide. It could be "Why I Think It's OK To Waste The Money I Paid To Go To College" or "Why I Think College Is the 13th Grade." Or it could be something related to the first paper they have to do. At the end of class, you announce that life can be like this for the rest of the semester, and they'll improve by default, or life can be easier and we can do more interesting things.

The second class (I teach Tuesday and Thursday), I went in balls to the wall. I laid out all their handouts in a row on my desk, and the sheer amount shut them up. I went in with my Mistress face, I suppose. Nobody had an attack of the crazies. There was much less talking, and for the few brave souls who still ventured it, a look shut them up quickly. I think Tuesday, I came in with the wrong assumption. Normally, 101 is full of first time freshmen who are scared to death. This time, there are a lot of first year frosh, but there are also more experienced students. And the time of day makes a big difference. I teach in the middle of the day, so they're awake and usually quite active (versus 8:30 a.m. when they're good because they're groggy).

I've even started to like a couple of them. The vast majority I still don't like, though. Because Thursday couldn't be without complications, I turned to write on the board and my shoe, of thong design, snapped and broke. So I cut one of the straps off my bag and MacGuivered it around my shoe and my foot. It was either that or go barefoot. Both images don't help dispel the stereotype of Appalachians.

At the end of my first week, though, I go up to my giant cube farm office, and Batmite! tells me someone has left me a present. Something was giftwrapped on my desk. I shook it to see if it would tick and I smelled it to see if it was anthrax. Having passed both those tests, I opened the card. It was from a student from my very first semester of teaching. I had written her a glowing recommendation letter last semester so she could go to Italy all summer for study. She got to go, and she had bought me a stationary set with a pen from Florence, with that gorgeous Peacock design on the paper and pen, because she was grateful I helped her, and because she knew how many times I'd tried to get to Italy and failed.

Even with a wrapped up broken shoe, it made my whole day. There's always that one student. Thanks, Lauren.

-- Virgil

Fitting In Just Fine

Dante has been reacquainting himself quite nicely with West Virginia. He is lucky enough to have two boys the same age who live on the same street. When they're all here, they terrorize the block with their barbaric yawp and made up games. Dante is quite enamoured of them. Sometimes its hard to get him to do anything else except watch at the window for one of them to come outside. (Dante took all photos himself.)

Andre:


Zayne:



He's also busy doing his favorite thing in the world right now: wrestling.


-- Virgil

What Were They Thinking?!?!

I am a reality TV junkie. I admit it. I've watched everything from Flavor of Love to Who Wants To Be A Superhero? and without shame. I know what I like in a reality show: people who don't look perfect and who aren't on the bright side. I realize that's probably a disturbing sign of something disturbing. But the more screwed up the people seem to be, the more I seem to like it. That's why I dug Flavor of Love and I Love NY and not the Bachelor shows. One Flavor of Love girl even crapped in the floor! It's not gonna get any realer than that! Show me some washed up has been two hit wonder who's looking for love (and probably to promote his attempt at a comeback album) and the 20 drunken former/current strippers who answer the casting call. You can call it...Rock of Love. Yes, I'm hooked on that, too.

Maybe reality TV is exploitive, maybe it isn't. I'm always surprised that at least one or two people on reality shows have made the rounds of a few OTHER reality shows, usually things like Elimidate or 5th Wheel (you really don't want me to link them). But apparently even I have my limits. And this fall, I'm looking for ways to make my voice heard.

Kidz Nation airing on CBS this September needs to be yanked off the air. 40 kids are supposed to be there alone (although there are obviously adults running the cameras). You can watch the sickly sweet little promotional clip if you click on the Kidz Nation link. The kids are between 8-15, and they have to do everything themselves--cooking, killing animals if they want meat, etc., etc. Watching the promo where some of the kids sat in with the chickens to keep them from being killed was pretty cute. But then, of course, it all goes sour...

...because the next shot is of kids pushing each other and pulling to get what they want. And of course, kids are crying on camera, etc. It's a true Lord of the Flies scenario (where adults are just watching rather than truly being absent). I have so many problems with this, I don't know where to begin. But here are my two biggest ones. FIRST: child exploitation. Because these children are not considered to be actors, child labor laws don't apply to them. New Mexico, where the show is being shot, is the only place to have this sort of loophole. They have since closed that loophole, so if CBS wants to do a second season, they're going to find it hard to stage it anywhere else. Even though the Kidz Nation producer denies looking for a loophole to child labor laws (which restricts, among other things, how much a child can be worked--filmed--in a day), it is a bit odd that the only state whose laws could be twisted into fitting magically ended up as the chosen site. A former child actor turned advocate slams the show as being a "travesty." I have to agree. What happens when the kid who breaks down in tears comes to be known around America as the "crybaby"; or the bossy girl ends up the "bitch" of the show? They're so young it would be hard to live down.

SECONDLY: What in the godhell kind of parent lets their kid go unsupervised for over a month with a bunch of other, probably older kids to see Lord knows what might happen?? Are these people loons? Are they so greedy for television careers for their kids that they would be willing to jeopardize their mental health for it? It's long been a fact that child actors have an extremely difficult time transitioning into adulthood and going about a "normal" life after they've been momentarily famous. We can all just times that by 40 now.

I'm very angry at this. I'm a reality TV junkie, and even this is too much. I'm officially starting my protest of this show right now, and CBS can look forward to (or ignore at their pleasure) the litany of angry emails I'm going to be submitting to whoever has a listed address. I don't know if it will be effective or not, but somebody should say something!

-- Virgil

Conspicuous Consumption

Messy little boys...

Now that I have one week between summer school being over and the fall semester beginning (:pant::pant:), I've taken a moment to do things around the house. I have to get ready for my service learning classes and keep studying for my Italian language exam this fall, but if my house is a wreck, my mind is a wreck, too. (And no, I'm not a neat freak. I just operate on the Broken Windows policy.) I went into Dante's room to clean, because I figure this is the only time I can clean it and it actually stay that way for a few days. Slowly but surely I'm bringing him around to taking care of his own things. Sacking them up and making them disappear for a few days usually wakes him up. He needs plenty of storage bins, and then the boy does OK. Just don't ask him to sort anything yet. So I'm toodling around his room, and I notice that we haven't gotten into the two giant bags of his fall and winter clothes that came back with him (he's in KY, by the way, until this weekend). I had already handled the spring/summer stuff, and boy was that a workout! It required a trip to Target to get a couple of their storage options.

I know I sent him down with plenty of clothes--not really more than he needed, but enough so that the inevitable pants rip or destroyed shirt wouldn't leave him short. I try to have enough clothes for about two weeks. I don't know why that's my golden time frame, but it is. And then a few extra "play clothes" for really down & dirty play times. He came back with enough clothes to cover four children.

Apparently one of the ways that Nana competes against Daddy (and vice versa) is to outspend the other. The boy has so many clothes, they came to me in two giant plastic tubs. I spent the first few days he got back wading through them and picking out the ones that were obviously too small; and he's still got more. He literally could go about 2 months without ever wearing the same thing twice. His taste in clothes, however, runs exactly like mine: I have a few favorites, and I wear them to death until they wear out. I can't help it. I like that shirt. It's clean. Wear it again! The bane of his closet is the "shorts outfit". You've seen them, I'm sure: the little basketball outfits with matching jersey? He's got a million of them. They're all over the place.

It's not my job to tell people how to spend their money. But for godssake, why not dump it into a savings account or buy him a bunch of books, or something? His daddy already bought him two new pairs of shoes for school (which he actually needed). He still needs a coat for West Virginia winters, but I swear I'm not buying him another stitch of clothes until that stuff in that closet is 1/3 the size it is now!

-- Virgil

Meg Is Not A Serial Killer

A little while back, the internet world and reality crashed into each other when Meg came through my part of WV with her two kids en route to her son's Magick competition, among other things. It was an exciting chance to meet someone with whom I always thought I probably had quite a bit in common (and a fellow atheist to boot!). In making the rendezvous plans, I had offered to meet her just off the interstate and drive her and the kids to the restaurant. She politely declined, and said she was sure I understood why she would want to keep her own car. It took me a second, but then I realized the faux pas on my part. What if I was a serial killer, too?? And if she'd made the offer to drive me, would my dumb butt have said "Sure!!" never having met her face to face? Probably. I've been on her blog a bunch of times; I know her "internet personality." She's safe, right?? (The answer, of course, is "yes," but in principle, it should probably be, "I don't know yet.")

Internet relationships have really put a twist on the conventional wisdom that assumes everyone you meet on the net has something to hide. I personally think that after you communicate a while with someone, even if it's just writing, you start to know them fairly well. I certainly get to know my students through their writing. You can usually tell when someone is creating a fascade on purpose. There are still a few people I'd like to meet whom I know only on the Internet. I don't believe those people would hurt me, because I think I know them. Maybe I'm too naive, or I think that because I'm 30 years old, I can better tell the difference between a hurtful stranger and a potential friend. I like internet friendships. I like them better when I get the chance to put a person to the name.

But Meg and her family were wonderful. I pulled into the parking lot, and I knew it was her before I fully registered that it was her. It just seemed like that person was "Meg." Isn't that weird? Her van has a homeschooling sticker and a Darwin fish on it. She's got to be good, right? Her kids were great, and we ate at Pugs. She has two teenagers, and the Girl is wonderfully unique. :) But it got me to thinking about Dante's upcoming teenage years--you know, technically he's a "tween" now. I have to wonder, how many organs did she have to sacrifice to get such pleasant teenagers? They were the kind of teenagers you'd want to spend more time around.They still obviously behaved like brothers and sisters will. But they weren't sullen nor off in their own worlds with a dislike of all things adult. Did it hurt badly, Meg? Do you still have at least one kidney? Because I'm beginning to worry.

I had a great time, and I wished they could've stayed longer, although I'm sure where they went was far more interesting than this town could be. This winter, and certainly by next spring/summer, I'll have the chance to go to England with Director/Buddy, who has family there. I'll probably meet Kitush (and possibly Huffers), other internet personalities that intrigue me. Although Kitush has asked that we meet in a public place--Meg can vouch I'm not a serial killer! I can also vouch that The Undesirable Element and Batmite! are pretty much identical to their blogs, and lots of fun after a few beers. (And even without the beer.)

-- Virgil

Just For Batmite!

I thought Batmite would get a kick out of Thor, the god of metal:




-- Virgil

You Go, Girl!

I still think this is one of the damned funniest things I've ever seen, especially since I deplored the original Fergie song "Humps." You remember that song: it's the one where she reduced her body to a bunch of "lovely lady lumps."


You go, Alanis! She gives Weird Al a run for his money on the parody, neh?

-- Virgil

Dante & Jared

This is Dante's best friend back in Kentucky. They're definitely cut from the same cloth. Both boys played baseball this year and ended up playing each other. Dante's team won by one point. Afterward, I invited Jared to play in the backyard. Nana's house is literally right next to the ballpark. While they were playing, I noticed the irony...




When the boys realized what I was doing, they looked at each other. "You're not black," Dante said. "I know," Jared laughed. And off they went again. The exchange reminded me of their history as friends. This same boy is growing up with a racist family, who've become milder since Dante has been in their lives. I hate that he always seems to bear the cultural brunt of changing people's minds. But he takes it well. When they were first becoming friends, there was an incident on the playground where a playful and well-intentioned Jared yelled after him, "Run, nigger, nigger, run!" Likely from some song he'd heard or from his dad watching football on Sundays or any number of inappropriate sources for kids. Dante stopped short and turned around and said, "Don't say that anymore. You can't say that." And nothing more was ever said about it. He also informed Jared that calling him "D-tay" was not his name and that he didn't need a nickname. It was likely a case of "acting black" that seems to happen with white kids who have black friends (you know it happens, don't deny it! The fake ebonics, the copying of rap star attitude & clothing, etc.)

They're close now. I like to think that Jared's world view was shifted a bit because of his friendship with Dante. His entire family showed up to Dante's birthday party. They were part of very few white kids there. The party was mostly made up of black kids and biracial kids. The parents were uncomfortable, but they relaxed over the next few hours. The kids were uncomfortable too--except for Jared--but I think they mellowed by the end. It's hard to imagine that things like this still exist in the year 2007.

-- Virgil